


Be Not Far From Me

by whitenoise27



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: And Then Some, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s02e12 Unnatural Habits, F/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:55:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23831203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitenoise27/pseuds/whitenoise27
Summary: "But keeping his distance emotionally was more than a matter of propriety; it was a matter of survival. Phryne Fisher would never commit herself to one man (and even if she would, he was quite sure that one man wouldn't be a washed up, divorced police detective far below her station), and Jack couldn't commit himself to anyone who couldn't commit to him. And so he had forbidden himself to feel anything for her beyond respect, admiration, friendship, and a healthy dose of exasperation.And yet… here he was."An introspective Jack POV set during Unnatural Habits immediately after Phryne leaves the station post Sanderson's arrest. Goes a bit off canon at the end.
Relationships: Jack Robinson & Rosie Sanderson, Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson
Comments: 56
Kudos: 176





	Be Not Far From Me

**Author's Note:**

> This one… got away from me. It started out as part of a series of canon-compliant missing scenes that I’ve been working on, and then it turned into “What if Mrs. Stanley hadn’t interrupted them at the bottom of the stairs?” Which I’m sure has been done before, and doubtless done better, but here we are. Also, I never write shippy fic — I don’t know what’s come over me. This quarantine has done things to me, y’all. Whatever this is, I hope it helps to at least somewhat brighten your own social isolation.

Rosie cried for a long time after her father was escorted out. Long enough that Jack began to wonder if it had been building up for a while, that it was more than just today's events that were breaking her heart. Not that today's events weren't enough — the shock of learning that both one's fiancé and father were guilty of human trafficking and murder had to be devastating. But he couldn't help but think, as her tears began to soak through his shirt, that this heartbreak was a long time in the making. He wondered if he was partly responsible for it — after all, if he had been a good enough husband, she never would have run to Fletcher in the first place — and held her a little tighter, hoping she understood the apology in the gesture.

When it became clear that she would require more than a few minutes of comfort, he gently steered her in the direction of his office. On the way, he glanced back toward the door, and noticed with a pang that Miss Fisher had disappeared. It wasn't surprising, and he could hardly blame her, but a surge of disappointment washed over him nevertheless.

Still, Rosie needed him, and Miss Fisher certainly did not. Divorce notwithstanding, Jack still cared for Rosie, and he wasn't about to leave her alone with her grief. He settled her into the chair in front of his desk and crouched beside her, hand resting lightly on her arm as her own hands covered her face and muffled her sobs.

"Can I get you a glass of water?" He started to rise before she answered, but she shook her head and clung to him. He settled on the arm of the chair and pulled her to rest against his side, murmuring trite, probably useless words of comfort. Rosie didn't seem to mind.

After a time, her wracking sobs calmed into a quieter hiccuping, and eventually stopped altogether. She looked up at him and nodded, and he understood that she was ready for that water now. With a whispered "I'll be right back," he gently extricated himself from her grasp and left the office. The station was nearly empty, and he found himself treading lightly, trying not to disturb the silence.

He returned to the office with a glass of cold water and handed it to Rosie, then crouched down again and rested a hand on her knee. Rosie took the glass in shaking hands and drank in small, stilted sips. After drinking half, she handed the glass back to Jack and folded her hands in her lap. He put the glass on his desk, out of the way, and returned his attention to his ex-wife.

"I'm sorry," she said. 

"No need to be. Are you all right now?"

She shook her head, wiped a hand under her eye. "No. Oh, Jack, what am I going to do?"

"I'll call your sister."

"No!" she cried, then closed her eyes and drew a shaky breath. "Jack, our _father_ … How can I explain…?"

Jack sympathized — he didn't know how to tell Sarah what had happened, either, but he didn't see a lot of other options. He doubted Rosie would want to return to Sidney's house alone, nor her father’s. Inviting her back home with him was a terrible idea. Phryne would take her in if he asked, but that would be even worse. Jack had few friends, and the ones he had were not well suited to taking in a woman in Rosie's situation. Sarah was the only viable option. And she’d have to be told eventually, in any case. "I'll talk to her," he said. "I'll explain what happened."

For a moment, he thought she would protest again, but finally she nodded. "Alright. Thank you."

He left the office again and sat down behind the phone in the lobby. This was one phone call he didn't want an audience for. As a detective inspector, it was frequently his job to telephone the next of kin of those victims whose murders he investigated. He couldn't count the number of times he'd had to make the call that changed everything in the worst possible way to unsuspecting families. It was never easy, but there was always a level of personal distance. They were strangers to him, and he was a stranger to them. Calling the sister of the woman he'd been married to for sixteen years to explain that their father was likely to be hanged for human trafficking, obstruction of justice, and accessory to murder was altogether different.

But better him than Rosie herself. He took a deep breath to steel himself, then picked up the phone.

When he returned to the office, Rosie had the glass of water clutched in her hands. Her eyes were red but dry, and she seemed to be breathing a little easier. Jack bypassed the chair and half-sat, half-leaned on his desk. "Sarah said you're welcome to come at any time, and stay as long as you need."

"Thank you," she said, voice barely more than a whisper.

"I'll drive you," he added.

"Now?"

"Only if you want to. We can wait until you're feeling up to it."

Rosie nodded and looked down at her water. "I still need… some time," she said. "If that's alright."

"Take as long as you need."

They sat in silence for a time, Rosie taking occasional sips of water. "It's just that… I'm not quite ready to face anyone yet, after…"

"I know. It's alright."

"I almost married him, Jack." She sniffled a little. "We had even set a date. The wedding was going to be in December. And Father… he told me… he told me…" She started crying again. "He told me that you were a good man, but that Sidney was a much better match for me." Jack handed her a fresh handkerchief, but kept his distance this time. 

"I'm sorry," she said again, wiping her eyes. "I don't know why I'm telling you this. I just can't help but think… how long has this been going on? How long has Father known? Was he already a part of it when he told me that Sidney was the better man?" She choked back a sob, but managed to avoid breaking down again. "And there I was saying how bad for you Miss Fisher was—" Jack instantly tensed. He didn't want to talk about Phryne to anyone right now, least of all Rosie. "— when she was the one who helped you save those poor girls." She sniffed and scrubbed at her eyes. "I'm sorry." Jack ground his teeth. He wasn't sure he could stand it if she apologized one more time. "I thought she was just causing trouble for you, but I was wrong." She huffed a bitter laugh. "Your choice in partners was much better than mine."

"No, she's not … We're not… Miss Fisher and I work together on occasion. Nothing more."

"Oh, come on, Jack. That line may work on your constable, but I was your wife. I know you better than that."

Jack didn't say anything, he just shifted uncomfortably. Somehow the conversation had taken a turn from comforting Rosie to discomfiting him, and he wasn’t sure how to get it back to safer territory. 

"Jack." Rosie's voice suddenly had a strength to it that he hadn't heard all night, and despite himself, he looked up and met her eye. "I've seen the way you look at her." Now it was Rosie's turn to look down and away. "I remember when you used to look at me like that. If you still did, we might still be married."

"Rosie…"

Her hands were shaking, and she put the glass of water down beside the chair leg. "It's alright," she said to the floor. "I'm hardly one to talk — I was already engaged again before you even met her."

Jack didn't correct her. He wasn't sure he ever wanted to speak again, to anyone. He wasn't normally a heavy-drinking man, but he was growing increasingly desperate for some whiskey. He had a small bottle in his desk drawer, but pulling it out in front of Rosie shortly before driving her to her sister's house seemed rather inappropriate.

"Anyway, I hope you're happy with her. I truly do." Jack was sure if he clenched his jaw any harder, he would crack a tooth, but he kept his face impassive. Rosie, oblivious, gathered herself for a moment, then pushed herself to her feet. "I'm ready to go to Sarah's now if… if it's not too much bother."

"Of course not." If relief could be bottled, he'd have enough to fill Phryne's mansion. He tried to refrain from seeming too eager as he fetched her coat and his own. It would be a long ride, but finally this night had a visible end. It couldn't come quickly enough.

**********

Rosie was quiet during the drive to her sister's. That wasn't surprising — she had a lot to process. He wished he could think of something to say to keep her distracted, but he was having to do some processing of his own. 

Jack wasn’t blind; he knew there was corruption in the force, even at the highest levels. But this was different. George’s betrayal had shaken him to the core. This was the man who had treated him like a valued member of the force while on duty and like a son while off. Who had encouraged him in the early days of his cadetship. Who had mentored him during his time as a constable. Who had saved his job after the strike. Who had made him the detective he was today. 

And the detective he was today had been forced to arrest the man who’d made him. Would have to write up the charges in the morning. Would have to testify against him at his trial. The thought made Jack sick. 

If he couldn’t trust George Sanderson, who _could_ he trust? 

Of course, he knew the answer to that question, but he was trying not to think too hard about her tonight. 

After dropping Rosie off, he drove aimlessly, contemplating how on earth had they all ended up in this mess. If he and Rosie had never divorced, she wouldn't have gotten engaged to Fletcher. Whatever attraction he felt toward Phryne would have been easier to shove aside if he had still been married. And maybe… just maybe, Sanderson wouldn't have gotten involved with Fletcher if Fletcher hadn't been engaged to Rosie. How much of this could have been prevented if he'd just stayed married?

But he hadn't, and there was no sense in agonizing over the what-ifs now. He had divorced Rosie, and by that action had set off a chain of events that led to the nightmare they’d all endured tonight. 

He realized with a start that his aimless driving had brought him to the familiar streets of St. Kilda, with a familiar house just up ahead. As he pulled to a stop in front of it, he heard Rosie’s words echoing in his head — _"I've seen the way you look at her. I hope you're happy with her."_ He found himself grinding his teeth again, his fists clenching tighter around the wheel. He was a fool. A complete and utter imbecile. He didn't know how many times he had told himself not to fall in love with Phryne. He had lost count months ago. It wasn't just a matter of propriety, though that was a significant concern too — if rumors started that the two of them were romantically involved, her presence on his cases would immediately come under closer scrutiny, and their effectiveness as a team would suffer.

But even more than that, keeping his distance emotionally was a matter of survival. Phryne Fisher would never commit herself to one man (and even if she would, he was quite sure that one man wouldn't be a washed up, divorced police detective far below her station), and Jack couldn't commit himself to anyone who couldn't commit to him. And so he had forbidden himself to feel anything for her beyond respect, admiration, friendship, and a healthy dose of exasperation.

And yet… here he was.

If he was a fool to fall in love with her, he'd be an even bigger fool to act on it. And he knew that if he went inside that house right now, in his current state of mind, he would be sorely tempted to act on it. He stared at the light in the upstairs window. It was obscenely late, and he couldn't imagine why any of the household would still be awake. He wished none were — that would make the question of "to go in or not to go in" so much easier to answer. But the light was on, and he could see the occasional flutter of movement through the dark window of the parlor.

His better judgment was doing its damnedest to save him. _Just drive away,_ it told him, firm and insistent. _Never mind the light in the window. Just turn around and drive away._ But he couldn't bring himself to listen. The thought of going home, alone, back to the empty house that he and Rosie had once shared… he couldn't bear it. 

The entire case had been harrowing. It was never easy to investigate the death of a child, and this evening's conclusion had come at the end of one long chain of increasingly worse blows: His job being threatened if he continued to pursue the case. The interminable waiting, staring at the clock and praying for an update on the raid. Collins' news that Sidney Fletcher was somehow involved, and the betrayal he felt when he realized that that meant the Commissioner was at least peripherally involved as well. His fear when he found the lock pick on the floor, that fear amplified a thousand fold when Sidney Fletcher had a gun aimed at her head and body language broadcasting his imminent intent to shoot. The parade of girls stumbling down the gangplank, spared at the eleventh hour from a fate worse than death. The awareness that he still had no idea how many girls he'd been too late to save. Then, of course, was Rosie's breakdown and his clumsy, awkward attempts to comfort her. Any of those events taken alone would have been enough to justify a night of alcohol therapy, but to deal with all of them combined? There wasn't enough whiskey in the whole of Australia to drown the sorrows of this case. And after he had spent hours trying to ease Rosie's devastation, Jack was in need of a little comforting himself. He felt raw and exposed, like an open wound that had been ground into the dirt and then had some salt-water poured on for good measure.

He gave in to the magnetic pull of the light in the window, easing out of his car and drifting up the walk. At the door, he knocked so softly he doubted anyone would hear it — his concession to the better judgment that was still trying to convince him that he shouldn’t be here. But of their own accord, his knuckles rapped lightly on the window a second time.

Relief and a certain anxiety flooded him when the door opened. Phryne's face, silhouetted by the light behind her, was unreadable as he stepped into the house without waiting for an invitation. Just being inside the familiar foyer eased the tightness in his chest a bit.

"I thought you were with Rosie," Phryne said, a little cautiously, if he could trust himself to be any judge. Which he couldn't.

"I was." The house was dark but for the light over the stairs, and he'd heard her coming down at least a few steps before she'd answered the door; clearly she'd been on her way to bed when he knocked. He felt guilty — she'd been through as much of an ordeal as he had tonight, and here he was, keeping her from taking her rest. "Is it too late?"

"Never."

The quiet, simple earnestness in her voice, and the gratitude that he felt in response, nearly undid him, and he foundered for a beat before latching on to her comment about Rosie. It was easier — safer — to talk about Rosie's state of mind than his own. "I've never seen her like that before," he said. "She was in shock; she just… needed some company." Just like he did, right now. Grateful that his hat gave his hands something innocuous to do, to keep them from doing something stupid, he drank in the sight of her and wondered at her strength. Looking at her now, one would have no idea she had been kidnapped, tied up, and nearly shot mere hours earlier. And somehow, just by standing there, she managed to share that strength with him, to make that wound in his soul just a little less raw, and he had never loved her more than he did in that moment.

"She needed _you_. Jack Robinson. The man who always does the right thing. The noble thing."

And there was the endless contradiction that was the essence of Phryne Fisher — that she could heal him and hurt him simultaneously, that in the same breath she could ease one pain and intensify another. On any other day, he would've been able to resist. He'd grown extremely adept at donning the appropriate emotional armor, at harnessing his self-control to keep himself from responding to her flirting and innuendos in a way he'd regret. But her earnest sincerity always managed to find its way past his defenses, and tonight he didn't have the strength to fight it off. The knowledge that she would do nothing with his heart but break it wasn't enough to save him right now. He loved her, he _needed_ her, and he wanted nothing more than to lose himself in her, if only for a few moments. "Not always, Miss Fisher."

That shell of strength that she lived in seemed to crack, and in a rare moment of vulnerability, she appeared to need him as much as he needed her. She reached for him, and he realized they were standing closer together, though he wasn't sure which of them had moved. Her fingers brushed his jacket, then slipped underneath it to settle on his back. His own hands had found their way to her waist, his hat making a soft thud as it hit the floor. He leaned closer, aware that this was a bad idea but equally aware that he didn’t care. He moved slowly, trying to broadcast his intent to give her ample opportunity to turn or back away if this wasn’t what she wanted. But she just pulled him closer, eyes darting to his lips before falling closed in expectation. He let the last shred of his resistance fall away. 

Their lips met, and it was exactly the heaven he’d always imagined it would be. She responded with feeling, but let him control the intensity, allowing him to take what he needed without asking for anything more, or giving anything less. Her hand reached up and clutched his arm, while his threaded through her hair to cradle her head. He forgot all about betrayal, about young girls with haunted eyes, about scandals and boxes and ships, and his universe condensed down to just _her_ and _this._ And the frayed edges of his psyche slowly began to knit back together. 

Eventually they broke apart for air but stayed close, foreheads touching and breath mingling. “Jack,” she whispered, lifting her eyes to meet his as her hand tightened on his sleeve. “Stay... tonight.” It was the closest thing to a plea he’d ever heard from her. She must have anticipated his panic, because he’d barely registered it himself before she reassured him. “Not for that,” she said. “Not… not tonight. Just stay. I… I could use someone to hold me tonight. And I think you could too.” 

He shouldn’t. There were so many reasons why he shouldn’t. But his will was weak and her eyes were pleading and he couldn’t have refused her even if he wanted to, which he didn’t. He knew what it must have cost her to make that admission, and how much trust in him she was demonstrating by showing that vulnerability at all, let alone asking him to share it.

He nodded mutely, and allowed her to lead him up the stairs. 

Inside her bedroom, she released his hand and without hesitation made for the second drawer on the right in her chest, pulling out a set of blue silk pajamas. “Your size,” she said, holding them out to him. 

He took them with a confused look. “You have pajamas… in my size… in your drawer.” 

“I live in perpetual hope, Inspector,” she said coyly, and despite everything, Jack couldn’t help but smile. It was just so _normal_ — her flirting and him pushing back — that it helped stabilize the world that was still rocking underneath him. She had produced her own pajamas from somewhere while he was still contemplating the implications of his, and she disappeared behind the screen to change. “You can change out there. I promise I won’t peek. Sing out when you’re done.” 

Somehow, changing in the same room, even with the screen separating them, felt more intimate than kissing her at the bottom of the stairs, and Jack almost lost his nerve and made his excuses to leave. But then he remembered the look in her eyes when she asked him to stay, and he remembered that the world outside this house was ugly and dark and cruel. Here he could take shelter from that, if only for a little while. That world would be easier to face in the light of the morning. For both of them. 

He changed as quickly as he could and tried not to think about her doing the same less than ten feet away. When they were done, she climbed into the bed first and held the covers back in invitation. He hesitated only a moment, then climbed in behind her. They spooned up together, her back to his chest. He started to drape his arm around her waist, but she immediately grabbed his hand in both of hers and tucked it under her chin, snuggling his arm like a child with a teddy bear. 

He would lay down his life for this woman. 

“Goodnight, Jack.”

“Goodnight, Miss Fisher.” 

**********

Jack awoke at the first dim light of pre-dawn. He couldn’t have slept more than a few hours, and he wanted nothing more than to stay here all day, but he needed to get back to the station. The whole force would be in an uproar after Sanderson’s arrest. Jack would have questions he needed to ask and questions he needed to answer. But Phryne Fisher was currently curled against his side fast asleep with an arm flung across his chest, and that was a circumstance that he knew in all likelihood would never come again. He had to savor every moment that he could. 

He had imagined this, sometimes, when his guard was down and before he caught himself. Waking up like this, going downstairs to share breakfast with Dot and Mr. Butler and sometimes Hugh before going to work, coming back after his shift to stay, rather than just for a nightcap and a game of draughts. He never stayed in these fantasies for long, afraid to taint the joy of what was right in front of him with a bitterness of what could never be. But they were always there, in the back of his mind, and this morning he let them play out as he lay there with her, breathing in sync.

The light outside slowly grew brighter, and eventually he could put the inevitable off no longer. He slipped out of the bed gingerly, trying not to wake her, but she reached out and grabbed his hand before he made it two steps. “Where are you going?” she asked, voice muffled by the pillow and by still being half asleep. 

“I have to go to work, love.” Jack started to step away, then froze, realizing what he had just let slip. 

Phryne’s hand tightened on his. “What did you just say?” 

He winced. “I said I have to go to work.” Maybe she’d assume she misheard, or wasn’t yet awake enough to press the issue. 

“You forgot a word.” 

No such luck. “I...”

“Did you mean it?” 

“Of course,” he said, deliberately mistaking her meaning. “I arrested the chief commissioner of police last night. I really should’ve been there an hour ago.” 

“Not that part.” 

She really wasn’t going to drop it, then. She still hadn’t let go of his hand, either. He sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It slipped out.” He drew a deep breath. He couldn’t lie to her; not after last night. “Yes, I meant it. Don’t worry, I know you don’t want—” 

“What makes you think you know what I want?” 

Jack wished an old arrest with a grudge would shoot him through the window right now, and put an end to the mess he was making of this. Despite the horrors of the previous day, sleeping with her in his arms had given him the most restful night he’d had in years. Of course he had to go and ruin it before the sun was fully up. “I don’t,” he admitted. “Not usually.” He continued haltingly, trying not to dig himself any deeper. “But on the subject of romantic commitment, you’ve made your wishes quite overtly known. And I respect them,” he added quickly. “I know this wasn’t any kind of promise, Phryne, and I don’t expect anything from you. I slipped.” He looked down at the floor. “It won’t happen again.” 

Phryne rolled over and sat up against the pillows in a maneuver that should have been awkward given that she still hadn’t released his hand, but somehow she managed to be graceful even while half asleep and at an hour she usually only saw from the other side of bedtime. She used her free hand to tilt his face back towards her. Her hair was mussed and her eyes still a little bleary, and his heart melted even as he cursed himself for a fool for the tenth time in the last three minutes. She didn’t look sleepy at all, though, as she looked him in the eye and said, “And what if I want it to?” 

Jack stared at her, dumbfounded. His world tilted, and he wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t still asleep and dreaming. His mind couldn't have formed a complete sentence if his life depended on it. 

“Jack, you need to breathe, darling,” Phryne said. 

The air left his lungs in a rush, and he gulped it back in, trying to make sense of this strange new world where police commissioners sold young girls into slavery and Phryne Fisher wanted him to use terms of endearment with her. 

Giving up on his saying anything, Phryne pulled him to her and kissed him, long and deep, with less passion than conviction. When she broke it, she waited for him to open his eyes. “ _That_ , Jack Robinson, _was_ a promise,” she said. Her thumb stroked his cheek, and his eyes drifted closed again. “Come back here when your shift ends, and we’ll talk about it more. For now, you go to the station and you make sure that George Sanderson and Sidney Fletcher never see the light of day again.” 

He nodded, still not entirely trusting himself to speak. He didn’t move, though, until she dropped her hand from his face and nudged him. “Go on,” she said. “I’ll still be here when you get back.” 

There were layers of meaning in her words, but Jack wasn’t in a fit state to decipher them. It would have to wait until they spoke later. He stood, and she loosened her grip on his hand, though she kept the contact until he moved out of reach. He gathered up his suit from where he’d folded it neatly on the chaise, and looked out the window. The sun was fully up by this time, the day promising to be bright. 

The world outside could be harsh and cold, but he had the strength now to face it down, and the reminder that he didn’t have to do it alone. He had found an unlikely band of allies in the unwavering loyalty of Hugh, the steadfast reliability of Mr. Butler, the meticulous intelligence of Miss Williams, the blunt-force edge of the two cabbies.

And, of course, _her_. His partner, his best friend, and maybe, soon, something even more. 

The cruelty of the world didn’t stand a chance.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Criticism, constructive or otherwise, is always welcome. Particularly on this one. As an aro ace whose attitude toward kissing is "Ew, keep your saliva to yourself," I have a hard time writing this sort of thing, but I'm trying to get better, so when the muse nudged this one, I ran with it. If it's awful, please feel free to tell me to go back to writing sword fights and pirates and pushing telepaths out windows. I promise my ego can handle it.


End file.
